


Alexander Hamilton Would Never...

by Ki_writes



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander is depressed, I didn't cry writing this, M/M, Sadness, Short, idk - Freeform, kind of angst?, there's death, what
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 08:43:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6072679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ki_writes/pseuds/Ki_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Alexander Hamilton was a man who never stopped thinking. </em>
</p><p>  <em>One night, a phone call barely pulled the man out of his writing trance, and he answered with a halfhearted ‘hello?’ The man on the other end was quiet, mumbling a few words that instantly made Alex’s heart drop.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Alexander Hamilton Would Never...

**Author's Note:**

> I only put the archive warning because I thought this might be a slight trigger to someone. Just want to warn anyone who may need it. Please, stay safe. Enjoy the story. 
> 
> It is very short, very... dribble. I wrote this just to write something. But I like it.

Alexander Hamilton was a man who _never_ stopped moving.

Being dormant in space gave him a crude feeling in his stomach, one that he tried his best to avoid at all costs. Be it pacing in his room while he wrote on a notepad, or drinking far too many caffeinated drinks to keep himself awake, Alexander never wanted to stop. His brain ran on adrenaline, pure adrenaline. Though wasn’t the kind of rush that a person gets when they’re doing something extreme like skydiving, or rock climbing, or riding a roller coaster, no. He ran on mental adrenaline. The feeling he would get when he was so close to finishing a speech that he could see the ideas in his head coming together. It was silly to others, but that hardly mattered. 

Other kids used to stare at him in class during college, witnessing the moment when an idea would click in his head, and the unrequited smile that spread across his face as he would type furiously to get as much information onto a blank document as he could. The girls used to giggle when they made their way through the door to see Alexander already there with his materials sprawled out on his desk, his hair in a messy bun, and the extra large cup of coffee from their on-campus coffee shop next to his hand. He always looked exhausted. The boys on the other hand, would throw insults at Alexander every chance they got. Whenever the professor was away, the bullies would play. No matter. Alexander never paid them any mind, because there was one person he knew always understood him. 

John Laurens. 

His roommate, and closest friend was the only person who tolerated him. Truly tolerated him. They fell into this routine during college. Alex would stay up, typing away madly on his laptop, sipping from cold cups of cheap coffee, and John would lay in his bed on the other side of the room, sketching scenes that came to his mind. One night he drew exactly what he saw. John drew his roommate sitting at his desk, back to him, hunched over with the light of his computer screen illuminating his silhouette. He’d never show Alex that sketch. Not so long as he was alive. 

Alexander Hamilton was a man who _never_ stopped thinking. 

His brain was a powerhouse, filled with endless energy and endless ideas. So, when his professor came to him asking the young man to accompany him to a convention, Alexander was quick to say yes. That night (a Tuesday night), he stayed up until 4am. And he would have stayed up later if John hadn’t made him go to bed. John had fallen asleep around midnight and woke up to Alexander sneezing, which is when he made the decision to force the smaller man to sleep. 

This was the reason that Alexander went to the convention with Washington while running a 102 degree fever. The man was nonstop. No matter what. 

A few summers passed and he moved in with the love of his life. They got a small apartment, shared a queen sized bed, a shower, a couch, a tv; they shared it all. It worked. They made it work. Nights of endless love filled their futures, and they revelled in them peacefully. They rarely fought, they rarely were upset with each other for more than an hour. It was wonderful, it was what Alexander knew he wanted. It worked.

That is, until it all changed. 

A phone call barely pulled the man out of his writing trance, and he answered with a halfhearted ‘hello?’ The man on the other end was quiet, mumbling a few words that made Alex’s heart drop. 

Alexander Hamilton was a man who _never_ stopped expecting. 

So, when he entered the hospital doors, his mind raced a thousand miles per hour, asking questions he knew could never be answered. Not anymore. _He has to be alive_ , this had to be a cruel joke that the universe was playing on him for not being there enough, for not paying attention enough, for not helping enough. For not loving enough. 

Alexander Hamilton was a man who _never_ stopped moving, or thinking, or acting. 

At the funeral, Alex withheld his tears. He watched the service in peaceful silence, stepping up once to say a few kind words of the deceased. The preacher gratefully spoke on the young man and said such kind things. Speaking in the name of God, Alexander actually felt a twinge of false faith fill his heart. People held his hand as the casket was lowered into the ground, giving him gentle hugs, half expecting him to cry into their shoulders. But he didn’t. He held his composure, laying flowers lovingly on the ground next to the fresh marble tombstone. 

Alexander Hamilton was a man who _never_ stopped loving. 

He went to bed alone that night, and every night after that. It was simple enough; bunch the blankets up to form a loose frame of a soft body, try and feel the warmth it gives off (hardly any). The facade grows old quickly, and he resorts to drinking in the nighttime, filling his body with an inner warmth that could only then be achieved with drunkenness. He typically started drinking around eight, but eight turned to seven, turned to six, turned to five, turned to as soon as he got home from work. His writing slowly lost its’ merit, people in his work began to take notice.

Alexander Hamilton was a man who was _never_ himself ever again. 

A year has gone by, and some way, somehow, Alexander finds himself looking through old books. One of them has a name scribbled across the top, and it looked like it hadn't been opened for years.

"Property of John Laurens," The name leaves a bittersweet taste on his tongue and he opens it up.

Inside are beautiful sketches. One of them looks familiar. It was so well done, and so common in Alex's mind that he recognized it as himself, sitting at his computer, with light outlining his own slouching silhouette.The date corresponds to his sophomore year in college, when he and John had been roommates.

That night, Alexander Hamilton finally stopped. Stopped moving, stopped thinking, stopped acting, stopped expecting, stopped loving. He drank himself into unconsciousness, not caring if he ever woke up again.

**Author's Note:**

> That's it. Short and simple. Man, I should really get a better grip on my tenses, but whatever for now. Hope you liked. Hamil-Heights coming out soon!
> 
> I really hope this kind of made sense. If not, I am so sorry. I know it's all over the place.


End file.
